


Blessed

by brynnmclean (ilfirin_estel)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer!Éowyn, Late Night Conversations, Other, Post-War of the Ring, Pre-Théoden’s funeral, implied future Éomer/Lothíriel - Freeform, Éowyn/Faramir - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilfirin_estel/pseuds/brynnmclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Great Hall of Meduseld was empty, the evening fires burned down to black and grey ashes, and sleep would not come to the new King of Rohan.</i>
</p><p><i>Change is as steady and insistent as the Anduin.</i><br/> <br/>Otherwise known as the fic where Éowyn finds Éomer brooding in the middle of the night and they talk about things, including Théodred, the Pelennor, Éowyn’s gender, and Faramir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [necrotype](https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/gifts).



> I owe a lot of inspiration to [Culumacilinte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte) and their amazing fic [The Stonework was Admirable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/676814) which features genderqueer!Éowyn/Faramir. Please go check that fic out! This is my own spin on gq!Éowyn.
> 
> I also owe a lot of thanks to my darling [Shay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype), who has always encouraged me with queer headcanons and kind words. I love you. <333
> 
> This fic is mostly book!verse. It is also unbeta'd, so if you spot any typos or mistakes (or anything problematic!), please let me know.

The Great Hall of Meduseld was empty, the evening fires burned down to black and grey ashes. There were men standing guard outside the doors—the unlucky midnight watch—but most had long retired and could be found in the comfort of their beds.

Not so with Éomer. Sleep would not come to him, and if it did, no comfort could be found. He was no stranger to nightmares, but familiarity did not spare him from awakening in darkness hour after hour, drenched in sweat and choking on tears. 

Sleep drew forth all his memories of blood-soaked battles and skirmishes, gave the faces of his loved ones to the slain that lay strewn about his trembling form. He mastered his fear in the waking world during battle, but when unconsciousness pinned him beneath the weight of a nightmare, he was lost. 

His hands shook too hard to grasp a sword, his knees failed and he collapsed to the ground—for in the recurring nightmare that plagued him, his horse always lay among the dead, split open by warg teeth. Each pull of breath into his body was the beginning of a painful cry of terror as he would look upon the faces of his éored and his kin. 

He saw again all the Riders who had fallen beside him over the years. But the deaths that cut closer were Éomund, his proud, fearless father; Théodwyn, his sick-frail mother; Théodred, his hero and beloved cousin; and then Théoden-King, helpless beneath the corpse of his horse as the Nazgûl’s fell beast bared its teeth. And Éowyn. His fierce Éowyn.

It had been her name caught in his throat this night and all the nights prior, her name strangled by a sob. He knew that she lay safe in her quarters, breathing deep and even, her face peaceful without the shadow of Black Breath. He had checked on her after every sharp awakening, his heart unable to settle until he saw that she was healed and whole. His sister, his brother. The last and dearest of his kin. 

Since returning from Gondor, in the months after Aragorn’s coronation, there was not a night that passed without him dreaming of Éowyn dead. Her body broken, trampled upon the Pelennor and bleeding out from a deep cut shoulder to opposite hip, a mirror of their father long ago. Worse, still—he dreamt of Éowyn in the Houses of Healing, lost to her darkness and unvoiced pain, slipping away from him no matter how long or how loud he called her name.

He had given up on sleep for the night, had thought to make these restless hours useful by looking over paperwork and plans, but he couldn’t concentrate. Pacing about his quarters had led to pacing about the halls until he’d found himself at the steps before the throne of the king. The throne he had yet to sit upon. 

One of the first things he had done when he returned to Edoras had been to set a simple wooden chair beside that throne. That was where he had been sitting for the past few months. He knew that his people thought it strange, that his marshals disapproved, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t yet earned his place as King of the Mark. It was one thing to lead armies in battle, it was another to rule all of Rohan during times of peace. And he had not expected to be more than the leader of Riders.

Éomer told his people that he would not sit upon that throne until Théoden rested beneath simbelmynë. There was much to be done before they would return to Minas Tirith and bring Théoden’s body back for the funeral. Éomer had to mourn what they all had lost before he could consider what they had won. The ghosts in this Hall were not wholly at rest just yet. 

Or perhaps it was just his heart that could not be at peace.

With a heavy sigh, Éomer sat down upon the steps before the throne and rested his elbows on his knees. He thought of the throne room at Minas Tirith and how much larger it was in comparison to this room, but how it hadn’t managed to make him feel as small as this one did. The weight of memories and responsibilities was here, crowding close, pressing down upon him. He had run about this room as a boy, wielding wooden swords and shields with Éowyn, chasing after an ever-patient Théodred. He still felt like that boy in these moments, a boy sitting on these steps in the dark, listening to the wind’s night song and waiting for his cousin to find him, tousle his hair, and tell him everything would be all right.

“It should be you here,” Éomer said aloud, looking at the throne. “I always thought you would be here, not me. What a king you would have been.”

He could imagine Théodred’s response, could almost see the smile on Théodred’s face— _what a king_ you _will be, little cousin. You have faced the Gates of the Enemy without flinching, why is it that you doubt yourself so now?_

 _I don’t know. I miss you,_ he wanted to say, wanted to have some assurance that he could reach the dead. But there could be no assurance of that, so he swallowed the words down. The wind wailed outside, its high, thin voice reaching through the walls and sending a shiver through him.

He startled at the sound of footsteps, small bare feet upon the floor. Éowyn coming to him through the darkness, her body clothed in a simple tunic and trousers he recognized as hand-me-downs he had altered to fit her. The dim light of the lantern at his feet crept across the stones to greet her approach. 

“Éomer?” she called, voice soft with concern. 

“Éowyn,” Éomer said in reply, rising to his feet and holding out a hand for her to take. “What are you doing awake, brother?”

Éowyn smiled at him calling her that, _brother._ It had been years and years ago when she had told him about herself, how she felt both man and woman and sometimes neither. When they were in the company of others, Éomer only called her sister, but he had accepted long ago that she was both brother and sister to him, though the world would often not let her be so.

“I would ask you the same, brother,” Éowyn said, taking Éomer’s offered hand and joining him at the steps. “But I know your look well. This is not the first night you have spent here brooding, is it?”

Éomer snorted and shook his head. “It seems nightmares plague my sleep and doubts plague my waking. And those are things that neither sword nor spear can vanquish.”

Éowyn folded her legs beneath her and squeezed his hand. He was grateful she didn’t ask him to elaborate; he knew that her hand in his was an offer of support all on its own.

“Do you remember our first few weeks living here, after Aldburg?” Éowyn said, and that brought a grim smile to Éomer’s face. Those first few weeks after Aldburg had been after both their parents had died. Of course he remembered. "You slept on the floor beside my bed each night because we both had nightmares."

“Théodred would come in and take me back to my room, but I always came back,” Éomer said. Éowyn had been seven years old to his eleven and they both were haunted by the images of their father broken and bloody, their mother hollow and cold. And Edoras was larger than Aldburg, full of kind strangers, but strangers nonetheless. The floor had been hard against his back and sleep hadn’t come easily, but at least they had been together whenever either of them woke up crying and reaching for familiarity.

Éomer had been too proud to explain to Théodred that keeping Éowyn close had been just as much for his own sake as for hers. He had been so afraid of waking up to find that he had lost everyone—father, mother, and sister. Sixteen long years had passed since that time and he was still battling that fear.

“I dreamt of the Pelennor tonight,” he admitted, peering across the hall to avoid meeting Éowyn’s eyes. “I saw you fall.”

Éowyn’s hand slipped from his grasp. “You know that I am sorry to have caused you pain,” she said after a long moment, the stiff set of her body visible out of the corner of his eye. “But I will not apologize for riding out.”

“I would never ask you to,” Éomer said, turning to her fully just as she stood. Her footsteps were soft upon the floor, but the sound echoed in Éomer’s ears. Shadows clung to her back and he swallowed against a cold wave of fear. “Éowyn.”

Éowyn hadn’t moved far and she took no further steps, but she did not turn either. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, hands bunched in the fabric of her tunic.

They hadn’t talked about the battle. Perhaps they needed to, perhaps Éomer needed them to. He felt the memories pressing against his chest and he struggled to breathe against their weight.

“I told you before the battle that I would have had you ride beside me if I could,” he said, though he knew the words would be vain, they only served as a reminder of the Old Argument. “I knew in my heart you would come no matter what anyone said. Though I asked you to stay—”

“It was unfair of you to ask,” she said, the words quick. Once, that pronouncement had been a sharp knife thrown at him, but long use had rendered it dull. Still, the aim of it never went wide.

 _I am just as much your brother as I am your sister,_ she had said to him in the camp before the journey south, her voice steel covered in frost. _If the rest of the world took me for a man, they would not bid me stay behind in these dark days._

The days were no longer dark, but it was still to be seen if the dawning of this new age would bring a more just world for a person like Éowyn.

“It has never been fair for you, my brother,” Éomer said, knowing full well that he could not truly understand the frustration Éowyn felt. She told him once that she did not always mind being the White Lady of Rohan, but that there were other days when she was someone who chafed at the name and the gilded cage she felt it came with. “You are a hero of our people because of that battle,” he continued. “I will never try to take that from you. I only wish that I could have spared you the hurt and the shadow that came over you.”

The hard line of Éowyn’s shoulders softened. “Since we were children you have thought of me as your responsibility. You have always been protective.” 

He was glad to hear no resentment from her. They had exchanged harder words over that point years ago. _You would not treat me this way if I were born male,_ she had spat, and he had had no answer for her. He could not say how he would treat her in another life with a different form. This was the life they had been given, for good or ill.

“I will not apologize for my desire to look out for you,” he said now. “I wish you could have ridden visibly in my éored, instead of hidden in Elfhelm’s. You have to know that, Éowyn.” _Come back, come back to me from the shadows in this room and from your doubts in me._ “I have never doubted your abilities as a rider among our people.”

She turned her head and even in the dark, he could see a faint smile curving her lips. “I know. You and Théodred were the only ones who never doubted me. You _saw_ me.”

He wanted to argue that others saw her as well, that her courage and strength had always been known in the Mark. But those words rang false for his proud brother whenever she had been given them. Perhaps now that she had ridden open in battle, she would feel free. 

“I hope that others will see you now as well,” Éomer told her, in earnest.

“I believe they will,” Éowyn said, something soft there, more content than triumphant. She seemed so much more at peace with herself than she ever had in the past. It pleased him to see it, though it was a little painful too. 

She was leaving him, he knew that keenly. She would go to Ithilien and she would change. As everything else was changing.

He shook his head to clear it of melancholy and rose to his feet. “Come,” he said to her. “Elrond’s sons gave me a bottle of some elvish drink, I forget the name. It is in my quarters. Perhaps we will sleep better after partaking in it.”

When they had reached his room and he was searching for cups for them, Éowyn apologized. “Being told to stay behind still burns me,” she said, clearing the clutter on his desk to make space. “I know you did not wholly agree with Uncle’s decision and I know you could not disobey him then. The memory still frustrates me all the same.”

“I understand.” Éomer set the cups and the bottle on the desk then offered Éowyn a blanket. It was warmer in his quarters than in the Great Hall, but a chill still hung in the air. He lit a few candles to accompany the lantern he had taken into the Hall.

The sheets upon his bed were twisted in different directions, visible evidence of a troubled sleeper. Self-conscious, Éomer made quick work straightening them.

The uncorking of the elvish draught seemed loud in the quiet of the room. Éowyn poured generously into their cups, studying the liquid with curiosity. 

It was dark, a deep red wine. The surface seemed to shimmer faintly in the light. Elladan and Elrohir had told Éomer many things about its taste—something about cherries, something about oak tones—but Éomer had not paid much attention. He did not need lengthy explanations on its tastes or vintage to know that it would be a fine wine, perhaps the finest he had ever tasted. It was elvish, after all.

Éowyn held her glass between her palms as if warming them. Éomer sat down on the other side of the desk and tried not to look at the paperwork he had been neglecting. The morning would come and bring the urgency of work to him then.

“You said doubts plague your waking,” Éowyn said suddenly, her grey eyes piercing him. “What is it that you doubt, Éomer?”

“Myself,” he admitted. It was no small thing to admit, but he gave Éowyn the truth willingly. It would have been her as King if he had fallen in battle. Surely she would understand. “I doubt this new peace, as well, but mostly myself. I never thought to be king, you know that.” 

He sipped the drink and felt warmth flow all through him. It wasn’t only heat, but sparks upon the embers of hope. It steadied him like warm, comforting hands upon his shoulders. He thought of Théodred; his face in Éomer’s memory had an encouraging smile. “What will be, will be,” he said then, trying to let hope in. “I will do my best by our people and pray it will be enough.”

Éowyn’s smile was gentle. “It will be. I know you will make a fine king, brother. And after your deeds in the War, you have the hearts of the people.”

She was correct about the latter, Éomer knew. However... “A good warrior does not necessarily a good king make,” he said. “We have never known true peace and there is much to be taken care of.” He gestured ruefully to the stacks of parchment upon his desk. “I fear that I will miss something.”

“Your marshals will keep you in line,” Éowyn reminded him, a little laugh in the words that brightened Éomer’s spirits more than the wine. “Are they not here to stand at your side and help you rule fairly?”

Éomer allowed a smile to curve across his lips. “Indeed. But I confess I shall miss my best advisor when the Steward of Gondor calls her away to Ithilien.”

A blush rapidly bloomed along Éowyn’s fair face and she took a generous sip of her wine. “This elvish drink is wonderful,” she murmured after a moment, clearly fighting for something to say.

‘Wonderful’ was an understatement about the wine and Éomer couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease Éowyn. “I shall have to see about asking for another bottle so you can take one to your love in Gondor.” 

Éowyn narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her glass, but Éomer only smiled, unrepentant.

“He has a given name, you know,” Éowyn said finally, setting her glass down on the desk and squaring her shoulders.

Éomer sobered, not wanting Éowyn to feel a need to be defensive. “I know. I only met him briefly, but Faramir seems to be a good man.” He paused, then very carefully asked, “Is he, brother?”

The question could have been insulting—perhaps it would have, if it had been anyone else asking Éowyn. But Éomer knew that Éowyn heard the questions within the question. _Is he a good man for you? Does he know who you are? Does he take you as you are?_

Éowyn ran her fingers along the rim of her glass and met Éomer’s gaze when she nodded. “He is a very good man, Éomer. And yes, I have told him my truth. We spoke often in the Houses of Healing and he has an understanding of who I am.”

“He sees you, then,” Éomer said, placing the same emphasis on sight that Éowyn did when speaking of being visible to others as woman, man, neither, and both.

Éowyn looked away, her hand rising to touch the pink flush along her cheeks. She was smiling again, something small and shy and pleased. “I believe so. And what he does not grasp, he still respects. He _listens._ I am free to be all of myself in his company without fear of judgment or cages. He will not put limits upon me because of how the world perceives me.”

“The world now knows it would be folly to limit you,” Éomer said warmly. “But I am glad to hear that this man will not cage you.”

“I love him,” Éowyn replied, the words simple, but the emotional weight in them banished Éomer’s worries. “And he loves me. The day the Enemy fell, he named me his lady and his lord. A Rider he will live beside, but never tame.”

 _I could not bear to part with you for anyone less,_ Éomer wanted to say, but he took another sip of his wine and found the taste of it suddenly bittersweet. He reached across the desk and took Éowyn’s hand in his own. “I am happy for you. He will come with Elessar here to honor Théoden-King and I will find time to get to know him better.”

Éowyn lifted their clasped hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you. I know that you will love him.”

“If he is as wonderful as you claim, I’m sure I will.” Éomer grinned. “Pray tell me, since you have taken him out of marriage eligibility, does he have any cousins that would be interested in your untamable brother?”

Éowyn threw her head back when she laughed. “You joke now, but I heard you stuttering while speaking with the lady Lothíriel!”

Éomer clapped his hand to his breast with a mock groan. “A hit, a hit!” He laughed with Éowyn though he felt heat rise to his face at the memory of fumbling through asking Prince Imrahil’s daughter to dance. Luckily, he had proved himself a fair dancer and the lady hadn’t seemed to have minded his stumbling speech.

There was warmth now in the world they were living in—the unfamiliar peace he wanted to hold on to, but felt he could never get used to. And so much change, change as steady and insistent as the Anduin.

“I love you,” Éomer told Éowyn, his sister and brother in one. “I will miss you dearly. But you will be free and happy, I know.”

Éowyn drained her wine glass before crossing around the desk to embrace him. “You will find your own joy, brother,” she told him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “The Darkness has passed, and though we will undoubtedly see its shadows lingering still, it is time for the sun to rise.”

“Indeed,” Éomer replied, and after Éowyn departed, those words stayed with him. 

He held on to the hope they had been given.


End file.
